


another phase in this world that brings death to life

by bamboozledone



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mates, Quasi Sibling Incest, References to Drug Use, Spanish-speaking Hales, body painting, dia de los muertos, references to alcoholism, season 3b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:13:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bamboozledone/pseuds/bamboozledone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And I thought the Day of the Dead was a celebration." Stiles continues as he touches the black pot of white paint when Cora places it back on the table. "This is a bit...somber, don't you think? Where are the sugar skulls? Celia Cruz on the record player? The taco bar?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	another phase in this world that brings death to life

**Author's Note:**

> I heart seasonal stories!
> 
> Warnings in so far as those who are aware of the more traditional Día de los Muertos customs and celebrations. Obviously this is a bit of a bastardization of the more specific traditions. Also, my Spanish is more Spanglish. Growing up in California with a grandmother from Juarez will do that to you.
> 
> Mistakes are my own.

He still goes to the woods on nights when the moon isn't full.

 

It's not a habit that is easily broken. He remembers being a child, when his dad was out late on the beat, and his mother would make him pull on a warm sweatshirt and his running shoes. "There's nothing in the dark to be afraid of, baby," she would say when Stiles would turn on the flashlight and watch the bright beam dance across the deep woods. "Remember that."

 

There's still something that draws him back to the sad house. Stiles doesn't know why he's so protective of something that isn't his, something that he really lays no claim to at all. He knows that someday in the very near future it's going to be demolished, and the remaining land and soil sold off to some hotshot real estate developer from Los Angeles who has been itching to bulldoze the area for years and is willing to pay handsomely for the honor. Stiles has been to the County Recorder's Office, seen the official tear-down order signed by the mayor herself filed next to the property deed.

 

Tonight, he's just jogging down the dirt path that weaves in and out of the pines until he sees it emerge in the distance. It looks like an abandoned sanitarium from his vantage point, possible haunted and riddled with the memories of anger and death. He's walking away, really he is, when he sees it. Just for a second, but it's there. Candlelight. Flickering against the walls inside the living room, warm and red against the eerier blue glow of the moonlight. It's and unusual sight for Stiles, but breakins by fucked up teenagers in this town are nothing new. It's the night after Halloween anyway, and they're probably working their way through leftover booze from a week of partying hard. It's probably nothing to make a federal case out of, but it stings because Stiles lets it.

 

He pulls out his phone, grimacing when he sees the hour. His father is probably stumbling home from another two-night shift that'll leave him ragged and sleeping with a half-empty Corona in his hand on the futon downstairs. It's not like there's something Stiles has to go home to tonight.

 

It is perhaps generous to call the entrance to the Hale house a door at this point. The County had hacked through the front of the home with an axe when they took it over, leaving a visible set of hacking marks on the antiquified wood. The door handle is hanging off the door itself at a crooked angle, and Stiles is pretty sure that it couldn't lock it if someone's life depended on it.  He follows the flicking of the light down the hall, careful to avoid the water-rotten floorboards that squeak and the walls that groan with the slightest imbalance. He makes his way slowly to the edge of the living room, one foot in front of the other, until he sees them.

 

Derek is stripped down to black boxers, the faint glow of the candles setting his sweat-slick skin on fire.  His eyes are glazed, flickering between white-blue and sage green as he breaths in heavily, his chest rising and falling to an unsteady beat. Cora stands in front of him, her back turned to Stiles. She's wearing a white dress that falls to her knees, flowing and eerie. There's a faint floral scent wafting through the air, mixed with cinnamon and something Stiles' human nose can't quite put a finger on.

 

" _Al vivo todo le falta y al muerto todo le sobra_ ," Derek says quietly as Cora picks up a black stone pot from a small table and stirs the contents with a wooden popsicle stick. " _Ya_ _tú sabes, y yo sé tambien_."

 

The accent is a little rough, the words pronounced perhaps not as musically as Stiles has heard them spoken, but Derek speaks with a practiced confidence that surprises Stiles. He's temporary taken aback as he listens to Derek murmur his sister in such an intimate tone. The words are mostly in Spanish, a couple phases of English thrown in here and there. It's beautiful, soft and open in a way Stiles has never seen Derek be, and it rattles him a little bit that he thinks he knows these people, these wolves, but perhaps doesn't know him at all.

 

"You know this is a fire hazard, right?"

 

Stiles knows that they already know he's here, have probably known since he pushed his hand up against the rusty door handle on the front porch.  Stiles shifts into the iridescent moonlight that's creeping in through the patches of decayed wall, so they can see him fully, and so he can have a better perspective of what is going on.

 

His breath catches when he gets the full view of the room. There are flowers everywhere, an innumerable amount of marigolds in an assortment of colors littering the creaky floorboards. Every foot or so there's a white candle with three wicks placed in between, burning slowly in the midst of the ravaged room. The room is bare of discernable furniture, save for the wooden table that's set up near the south wall, and Stiles is suddenly reminded of the burning, burning that went on in here so recently yet so long again.

 

"Did you need something?" Cora asks impatiently, finally facing him.

 

Stiles steps forward until, so his feet are touching what's left of an area rug. "What happened to the apartment?" 

 

"Sold it," Derek says softly, not looking at Stiles.  He focuses on the way his sister moves her fingers over the muscles on bicep, the crook of his elbow, drawing lines that nobody but Cora can see in the moving gray  shadows. "Nothing left to go back to anyway."

 

"Bad memories," Cora adds, pulling on the hem of her dress until she stands in nothing but lacy white underwear and a dark smile that Stiles likes more than he really should.  She pushes her fingers back into her hair, tying the long brown locks up out of her face and leaving traces of paint near the nape of her neck. "You can't exist with that much pain around you all the time. It's unnatural and unhealthy."

 

"And this place is just full of the happy times," Stiles cuts in. He can feel the blush creeping slowly, slowly across his cheeks as Cora adjusts the strap of her bra and returns to painting her brother's body with the white liquid. The material on her body is mostly sheer, and he can see the faint outline of her dark nipples through the fabric, and the telltale bulges of a piercing on her right breast.

 

"The good outweighs the bad," she adds decisively. "Now shut up, I have to concentrate."  

 

"And I thought the Day of the Dead was a celebration." Stiles continues as he touches the black pot of white paint when Cora puts it back on the table. "This is a bit...somber, don't you think? Where are the sugar skulls? Celia Cruz on the record player? The _taco bar_?"

 

"This is a celebration," Cora assures him with a small, sad smile. "We just celebrate...differently. Less food and more paint."

 

"I can see that." Stiles leans his back against the table. Derek shifts too, leans forward so Cora can get at the skin on his neck. He inhales sharply when he right finger touches the connecting point between his spine and his skull. "I didn't know you two are Mexican."

 

"Mom's side was indigenous. Dad's side came from Spain."  

 

Derek straightens his back when Cora taps on his collarbone, but he doesn't raise his face like he should. " _Mírame_ ," she says. "Derek, sweetie, look at me."

 

He does, little by little, until he's staring straight into her eyes. And wow, Stiles thinks to himself, that's a little unnerving, they way they look at one another like they're just holding themselves back with strained willpower. " _Para los muertos_ ,"  she murmurs as she pushes her fingers back into the white paint. The amorphous liquid goes all the way to her first knuckle before she pulls it out, touches it to Derek's lips. " _Para_ _nuesta familia_."

 

She continues marking Derek for what feels like hours, until every part of his body covered in the white and black lines. She spends extra time on the lithe muscles of his back, the white paint covering Derek's tattoo that he bears with such a sincere amount of pride. She draws the bones of his back in a black paint that stays slick long after she places it carefully on Derek's skin.

 

When she finally finishes, she's panting hard, as if she's been running in the rain, and her hands are shaking. Derek barely looks better, his breath coming out in quick, uneven stutters as he leans against the wall.  Cora follows, cautiously, like she's afraid he's going to spook and run.

_"Te amo, mi hermano_ ," she whispers, and Derek kisses her, hard and brief before she pulls away and puts the bowl of black paint down on the table, side by side with the white paint. " _Para_ _siempre_."

 

They all stand there, quiet, contemplative, for a few minutes. By the time Stiles finally moves away from the table, Derek's breath has slowed, and most of the paint on his body has started to dry from the heat under his skin. 

 

"Your turn," Derek says as he comes behind him, his hands firm first on Stiles' shoulders, then releasing and dropping down his sides. Stiles feels the same hands press up against the small of his back, pushing up under the sticky fabric of his shirt, and it's all he can do to not turn around, to not push Derek up against the wall and tear at him, his lips, until he bleeds.

 

Cora pushes the two pots across the table to Stiles. There's a hunger in her eyes now, open and honest, and it takes Stiles' breath right from him, a soundless thief that Stiles will never catch. "Be careful. That's all that's left. I didn't bother to buy anymore."

 

Stiles pushes himself forward, away from Derek and his hands, groping at the pots until he touches the smooth stone edges and pulls them toward him. He drags his fingers through the liquid more quickly than she did, foregoing the aid of the popsicle stick. He's surprised at how cold the paint is, considering how warm the house remains despite the chill in the November air and the holes in the wall.

 

As he turns back to Cora and Derek, he watches as Cora's hands venture a steady trip up her sternum. Stiles continues dragging his fingers through the viscous liquid, but he can tell that his mouth is open, dry, and unable to encase a breath without effort. "You don't have to," he says, staring at her long fingers as they tug the front clasp of her bra. "I mean, you...you..."

 

"Stiles," she whispers, pushing the metal clutch together and then apart and pulling the fabric over her head and throwing it across the burned-out living room. Her breasts sway as she rights herself and steps toward him.  "Don't be such a baby."

 

She keeps stepping forward, until her breasts are barely pressed against his chest. Which, really, he should have guessed she would do something just like that, because it appears the unwillingness to follow normal protocol in regards to personal space runs in the family. "Do you trust me?" he asks quietly, the pitch of his voice rising when she presses her nose to the bend in his neck and inhales.

 

She smirks, presses herself forward even more as she draws her nose back. "Do you trust yourself?"

 

Derek growls again, louder this time. " _Para los muertos_ ," she whispers when Stiles finally brings his paint-covered fingers to her skin. " _Para_ _nuestra familia_."

 

He paints her in the opposite fashion of her brother, the black dominating the smooth surface area of her skin. White lines run the length of her spine, endless bones that branch out in the way he remembers vaguely from the anatomy books he keeps on the bookshelf in the downstairs bedroom. He's never been artistic, not really, but somehow the lines curve with the crests and troughs of her body perfectly.  

 

Cora inhales sharply when he presses his finger along the ridge of her nipple, just lightly, with a finger covered in black paint. The flesh tightens imperceptibly, and the cool metal of her nipple piercing catches the candlelight as she trembles. He can feel her body shaking, just perceptibly enough, when he reaches to brush a strand of her hair off of her face and returns to the other side.

 

"Not such a baby after all," she stammers out, voice harsh.

 

Stiles replies with a tuneless hum as he runs his fingers through the cool black paint again. He's almost out of the white, and he starts covering the expanse of her stomach and breasts in the dark black ink, watching it smooth and harden in the low lights of the room.

 

"You're certainly taking your sweet time," she comments a few minutes later, when his fingers find the rigid dip of her tailbone, just touching the top of her underwear. He lingers, hands unwilling to move of their own volitition until she speaks again. "Real Michelangelo, aren't we?"

 

Behind him, Stiles can hear Derek hiss as Stiles' fingers drip just below the fabric, and move up again to her spine almost instantly. "Patience is a virtue," he says with his complacent edge of sarcasm, while trying to will his obvious erection down before he steps in closer to finish covering the flesh of her hip.

 

"I feel like you should be buying me dinner," Cora muses as his hands wander to her shoulders, turn her around to face him. He smirks and touches her nose with a tip of white paint that melds with the black to make a burning grey. " _Al vivo todo le falta y al muerto todo le sobra_ ," he retorts, smearing more white on her face, until it makes a sharp swirl on her cheek.  "Now shut up, I have to concentrate."

 

Her head flickers up, a few strands of her reddish highlights falling in front of her eyes. Her eyes are burning a bright yellow now, unabashed and unashamed. "¿ _Hablas español_?"

 

Stiles chuckles as he continues down her body to the tops of her thighs, fingers dragging over the unshaven skin. He touches one, two, three scars that run along the length of her legs. He doesn't know where they came from, somehow doubts that even Derek would know the secrets that Cora Hale keeps close. "Only what I learned from the telenovelas my dad pretends he doesn't DVR."

 

He finishes up her legs, and rises in front of her. There are a few patches of skin here and there that aren't totally covered, Cora's olive skin peeking out under too light a coat of paint, but Stiles is out of his medium, and there's nothing he can do about that. He straightens his back until he's just a little taller than her, barely a breath away from her mouth.

 

"On the table," she whispers, pointing with a twitchy finger. Derek's head snaps up, and he moves toward the table, his eyes fixed on Stiles the whole time. "At the end. The black tube. Bring it to me."

 

Derek grabs the tube, hands it to her. She kisses his cheek and pats the side of his face as he steps back. She puts the lipstick on painstakingly slow, her tongue flicking out to catch a stray red smudge she makes with her shaking left hand. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles watches Derek, who is still holding on by some tenuous thread as Cora snaps the lipstick shut.  

 

"I...don't really understand what's going on," Stiles chokes out as the two Hales move in, take away the little bit of air he was getting. He can taste their breaths and the scent of the paint and the ashes of the fire all around him.  "I really don't remember reading about this shit in National Geographic's issue on wolves and courtship."

 

" _Para nuesta familia_ ," Derek repeats, low and hot. He's close now, too close, and Stiles gives up on the concept of breathing space as Derek pushes against his front, solid and strong and still scary as hell.

 

"You're pretty cute when you can't talk," Cora whispers from behind him, her now blood red lips touching the outside shell of his ear. "Is that a new character quirk?"

 

"No," Stiles whimpers.  Derek's hands are pulling his shirt up, over his head. It's gone in an instant, He feels Cora smirk against the side of his face when her hands slide into his pockets, claiming the flesh underneath as her own. "You're both just too preoccupied with being terrifying to notice."

 

Derek kisses him first. Of course he does. It's slow, smooth, rich, like the liquor Stiles steals from the cabinet and pours down the drain when his father isn't looking. Derek kisses in a way so different than the core of himself, free and willing, and like he isn't afraid that the world is just going to explode around him. Stiles can't say the same for himself. Stiles kisses frantically, like he knows that Derek is going pull away and never, ever come back. He's sure he's biting too much, possibly slobbering at this point, but he just presses himself forward more, more.

 

"Does he taste as good as he looks?" It's a taunting question, but barely. Stiles pulls away, sees Cora right behind Derek now, her brown eyes bordering on warm golden. She licks her lips in a way that can't be anything but ruthlessly deliberate, and it's not hard to know what she means.  

 

" _Compruebalo tú misma_ ," he growls.

 

Cora kisses him like she's questioning Stiles, everything he was, is, should be, might be, could be. She likes using her teeth more than her brother did, nipping until Stiles can taste the faintest trace of his own blood mixing with her sugar-sweet breath. She's not gentle, but he never figured she would be. Cora may have the softest skin he's ever felt under his fingers, but she's all rough-cut edges of steel from too hard an existence that nobody can even trace. Cora is light and viciousness defined, something that you don't reach out an touch, but wait to be touched by.

 

"Please," Derek says when Stiles fumbles with the button on his paint-stained jeans. " _Por favor_ ," Cora chimes, her fingers finding the zipper.

 

It's not like Derek needs to ask. It's not like either of them needed to ask.

 

There's paint everywhere, streaking the white sheets on Derek's bed as they tumble on, one, two, and three bodies in a mess of limbs and breath. The marigolds that had been painstakingly placed all over the pillows fall in a shower of petals to the floor. Stiles tries for a couple brief moments to figure out whose fingernails are digging into his hips, whose hands pull and pull at the skin on his back, but he loses track as Cora climbs on top of him, her smooth legs straddling his waist as he leans back, into Derek's solid form. He feels hands on his sides, sliding down and holding the heat of him, lips on his face and neck. It's sensory overload, the way he feels every time he's near Derek and Cora anyway, and he lets himself go, be washed away by the sensation of paint and skin and sweat until he sobs out, feels them fall over right behind him with a kiss and blood and fire.

 

"He didn't want to leave," Cora whispers later. Derek has been sleeping on and off for a few hours, the wet-hot feel of his intermitten breathing keeping Stiles on edge as he shifts restlessly on the bed. "I made him go, to get away from everything that had happened. Just for a little while."

 

"Where did you go?"

 

She smiles, bitterness seeping into her slowing breaths. "Here and there. We ran through Montana, swam in Vancouver." Her breath spikes when Derek rolls over, pushes his nose into her throat, and begins to snore quietly. "Danced in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. Watched the ball drop in Times Square."

 

He doesn't need to be a werewolf to know what she's doing. "You're lying."

 

She laughs, quietly, and rolls over to face him. Most of the paint on her face is smeared, coalescing the black and white into a soft gray that looks like the morning mist outside the Reserve when he goes on long runs on Saturdays. "Honestly? We got drunk in San Francisco. Got high in Berkeley with some kids with advanced degrees and trust funds. Shot up once or twice in Oakland when he hit rock bottom. It wasn't dignified, but it was what he needed."

 

"Good to know that drugs and booze can still compromise the werewolf nervous system."

 

Cora laughs, geniune this time. "There's a big population of wolves in Berkeley. Lots of premeds who didn't get into Stanford and decided to apply themselves to the finer art of enhancing drugs and alcohol to affect werewolf physiology." A quick smile passes over her lips, a fond memory forming in its wake. "They're good kids from good packs. They just don't buy into the whole system that the different wolves in the area have created. They're making their own choices, and most of their families will never approve."

 

"Do you? Believe in the system?"

 

Her face instantly falls into a furrow. "My family was traditional in every sense of the word. The pomp, the circumstance, the hierarchy. The absolute worship of Alphas and shitting on the Betas and Omegas. It's antiquated at best, and nobody except my mother and father ever really liked dealing with the stranger requirements. Derek and I never agreed with it. God, even Peter didn't agree with it, and he _always_ went along with what my mom said."

 

Cora shifts in the bed, like the memory hurts to even touch with the slightest edge of her mind. Derek groans, and turns away from her. "We're going to be different, him and I. We're going to be a pack again. The true Hale pack. New and improved."

 

"Yeah?"

 

She kisses his shoulder. "Yeah."

 

They sit in silence for awhile. Derek seems to have drifted off again, his body no longer rigid, but lax and steady.

 

"He loves you." She says it like an afterthought, like he somehow knew already. She cuts Stiles off before he has a chance to balk at the concept like he want to. "He has odd ways of showing it, but he does."

 

"What about you?"

 

She closes her eyes, her fingers finding their way to the thin skin on Stiles' wrist. "I want to kill you sometimes." She fidgets, pulls the covers over her breasts and giggles when Stiles whines at her entirely unnecessary show of modesty. "A lot of the time, actually."

 

Stiles barks out a laugh. "But not all the time. This, I think, qualifies as progress."

 

"He...I...we love you." She looks like it hurts to voice the words. She won't even look at him when he shifts toward her and puts his hand on her naked hip. "So much it aches when you're not around."

 

"You don't really know me."

 

Cora licks her lips, the red lipstick almost completely gone from her face. "I know you saved me. Once. You saved him too. More than once. And more than unwillingly, I think." She breathes in, doesn't let it go for a moment, and finally looks at him. "But you did that, for us. Even though we're wolves and you're a human. It was a sacrifice, every time. Sometimes, that's all it takes."

 

"Still." For the first time since he hit the mattress, Stiles is aware of his own nudity, and is vaguely embarrassed by the whole thing. "Love...that's...a lot, right?" The same blush from earlier in the evening makes an unwanted encore appearance on his face. "You don't just fall in love because you have a weird transference thing going on."

 

"Wolves...we're different. We don't fall in love the same way humans do. Our affection isn't always bought with human concerns in mind. We form connections in different ways. Sometimes it's the other person. Sometimes it's just in our blood. Something we can't control. We just need the switch. You, saving us. That was the switch. "

 

He can practically hear the word hanging in the air, unspoken but present. "Mates?" He laughs, despite himself. "Oh god, _mates_?"

 

"Nobody calls it that, asshole." Cora pushes his shoulder, her fingertips just on the right side of too sharp. "Not anymore, at least."

 

They lapse into silence again before Stiles gets up the courage to ask what he's been wondering all night.  "Why do you guys do all this?" Stiles asks quietly, the beginning of the daylight streaking pink across the room. "I mean, I know half a dozen families out here who celebrate the day, but they don't do all this. The painting, the marigolds. They just throw together a spread and buy a couple flowers. Put on some Mariachi music and piss off their neighbors when they get drunk and start singing in the streets."

"It means more to wolves," Cora answers. "The Day of the Dead. We lose people every year." She doesn't look at him, barely looks away from the way her thumb smudges along the sharp lines of Derek's jaw. Stiles doesn't miss the way Derek twitches when she starts running her finger down the hollow of his throat to the center of his painted chest. "All that death. You can't grieve the way you want to. You'd be overwhelmed by all the misery. And that's why we've always celebrated it. Like this. Every year. No matter what."

 

Stiles nods. "But you can't stay here, you know. They're going to bulldoze the place in a week."

 

"We're going to burn the rest down," Cora tells him. "Tomorrow, when the sun goes down. Derek got the gasoline a couple towns over. I bought the starters back in San Francisco." She sits up again, the ruined sheets forgotten as they fall to her feet. "It's our home, Stiles, and we want the dignity of taking it down ourselves." She puts her palm to his arm, to a scratch she left. "You have to be here Stiles. This is your home, too."

 

He licks his lips, tasting the bitterness of the dried paint in his mouth. "God, where were you all this time, Cora? He needed you so much, and you weren't here." 

 

She smiles longingly. "Running through Montana. Swimming in Vancouver. Dancing in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. Watching the ball drop in Times Square."

 

Stiles shakes his head. "Does he know? Derek? Where you were? What you were doing?"

 

She doesn't answer, which is more than the answer Stiles was expecting anyway. He leans into her body, puts his head on her other shoulder, nuzzles at the warm flesh there. He can feel the arch that goes through her body, the way his own body sparks in return. He's always felt it, an electricity looming under his skin, coursing through his body whenever he's near them, near the Hales. Near his _mates,_ whatever that means.

 

"Will you tell him?" Stiles asks, pulling her to him with a sound kiss. "Someday?"

 

Cora sighs against his mouth. "Someday."

 

"Will you tell me?"

 

"Someday," Derek murmurs, sleep weighing his voice down. "More than likely."

 

"Hey," Stiles pouts, shoving Derek away from Cora as he chuckles deeply.  "Have you been awake this whole time, silently judging our very deep conversation while pretending to be a perfect little sleeping angel?"

 

"Angel?" Cora starts, smirking. "Christ Derek, were you ever really worried that he'd turn us down?"

 

They all laugh, the sound warm in the chill of the room. "I should go," Stiles says after awhile. The light is no longer cold and cool, it's turning a warm orange that means that his father is going to wake up, hungover, and Stiles needs to be there for that. "My dad...I have to leave." 

 

"Stay," Derek mutters. "Stay."

 

"I wish I could." He's not lying.

 

Derek shuffles up onto his elbows. In the light of the morning, he's not nearly as beautiful as he normally is, just a rumpled man waking for another day he won't know how to handle. "You know what staying means, don't you?"

 

"Yeah," Stiles breathes. "Yeah, you want me to be part of your pack. Your...mate. I think?"

 

"Oh Stiles." Cora kisses him once, chaste, and places a smashed red marigold behind his ear.  It tickles when it touches his face, and her fingers trail down Stiles' neck when she pulls away. "You're already part of our pack. Already our mate. Staying just means that you want to be those things too. You can't change what you already are, Stiles. But you can accept it."

 

Stiles sighs, lets himself fall back into the sheets.

 

"What do you say?" Derek asks him, scooting his body close, until their thighs touch under Cora's careful hands.

 

Stiles leans forward, lets his nose touch Derek's like it's the most natural thing in the world. _"_ _Hay más tiempo que vida_ ," he says, kissing Derek, kissing Cora until he can't breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Phillip Phillips' song "Tell Me A Story".
> 
> ROUGH TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> Al vivo todo le falta y al muerto todo le sobra: The ones alive need everything, the dead need nothing.  
> Ya tú sabes, y yo sé tambien: You already know, and I know as well.  
> Para los muertos: For the dead.  
> Para nuesta familia: For our family.  
> Te amo, mi hermano: I love you, my brother.  
> Para siempre: Forever.  
> Compruebalo tú misma: See for yourself.  
> Hay más tiempo que vida: There is more time than life.


End file.
